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POEMS  ABOUT  GOD 


rfS^>S3'j 


I 


BY 


3  5 


JOHN   CROWE  RANSOM     0 

J  9/ 


1st  Lieut.  Field  Artillery,  A.  E.F. 


u 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1919 


Copyright,  1919 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


THE    QUIPin    4    BOOEN     CO.     PRESS 


THESE  POEMS  ARE   AFFECTIONATELY 
DEDICATED  TO 

CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 


INTRODUCTION 

-4* 

Most  of  these  poems  about  God  were  com- 
plete a  year  ago,  that  is  at  about  the  time  when 
the  great  upheaval  going  on  in  God's  world  en- 
gulfed our  country  too.  Since  then  I  have 
added  a  little  only,  and  my  experience  has  led 
me  so  wide  that  I  can  actually  look  back  upon 
those  antebellum  accomplishments  with  the  eye 
of  the  impartial  spectator,  or  at  most  with  a 
fatherly  tenderness,  no  more.  In  this  review- 
ing act  I  find  myself  thinking  sometimes  that 
the  case  about  God  may  not  be  quite  so  des- 
perate as  the  young  poet  chooses  to  believe. 
But  it  is  not  for  that  reason  that  I  shall  ever 
think  of  suppressing  a  single  one  of  his  poems. 
For  I  am  deeply  engaged  by  the  downright 
evident  honesty  of  the  young  man,  though  I  may 
wonder  at  the  source  of  his  excitement;  esteem- 
ing honesty  more  highly  than  those  amiable 
Southern  accents  into  which  he  seems  deter- 
termined  not  to  lapse,  and  indeed  more  highly 


vi  Introduction 

than  anything  else  in  the  world.  So  that  it  is 
altogether  as  his  apologist  that  I  undertake  this 
introduction. 

"  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way,  His  won- 
ders to  perform,"  says  the  poet  in  an  effort  to 
render  our  hearts  properly  humble  before  him. 
And  we  remember  the  story  of  how  a  certain 
Samaritan  woman  was  rebuked  once  for  thinking 
that  God  was  to  be  worshiped  only  in  that 
mountain  where  her  fathers  had  always  wor- 
shiped him;  the  point  of  the  story  being  that  he 
can  be  found  just  as  readily  on  one  mountain  as 
on  another. 
+  The  first  three  or  four  poems  that  I  ever  wrote 
(that  was  two  years  ago)  were  done  in  three  or 
four  different  moods  and  with  no  systematic 
design.  I  was  therefore  duly  surprised  to  notice 
that  each  of  them  made  considerable  use  of  the 
.term  God.  I  studied  the  matter  a  little,  and 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  this  was  the  most 
poetic  of  all  terms  possible;  was  a  term  always 
being  called  into  requisition  during  the  great  mo- 
ments of  the  soul,  now  in  tones  of  love,  and 
now  indignantly;  and  was  the  very  last  word 
that  a  man  might  say  when  standing  in  the  pres- 


Introduction  vii 

ence  of  that  ultimate  mystery  to  which  all  our 
great  experiences  reduce.  . 

Wishing  to  make  my  poems  as  poetic  as  possi- 
ble, I  simply  likened  myself  to  a  diligent  ap- 
prentice and  went  to  work  to  treat  rather  sys- 
tematically a  number  of  the  occasions  on  which 
this  term  was  in  use  with  common  American 
men.  And  since  these  occasions  fairly  crowded  * 
into  mind  even  at  the  most  casual  inventory,  I 
also  likened  myself  to  a  sovereign  and  a  chooser; 
and  I  very  quickly  ruled  that  I  should  consider 
only  those  situations  as  suitable  in  which  I  could 
imagine  myself  pronouncing  the  name  God  sin- 
cerely and  spontaneously,  never  by  that  way  of 
routine  which  is  death  to  the  aesthetic  and  re- 
ligious emotions. 

I  anticipate  the  objection  that  the  name  of  God 
is  frequently  taken  here  in  ways  that  are  not  the 
ways  of  the  fathers.  I  reply  in  advance,  There 
are  many  mountains;  and  probably  every  one  of 
them  is  worthy  of  being  charted  on  the  true 
Chart  of  God's  world. 

John  Crowe  Ransom. 

France, 
May    13,  1918. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Some  of  these  poems  were  originally  pub- 
lished in  The  Independent,  The  Liberator,  Con- 
temporary Verse,  and  the  Philadelphia  Evening 
Public  Ledger.  The  author  wishes  to  express 
his  thanks  to  these  periodicals  for  permission  to 
reprint. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Swimmer 3 

Noonday  Grace         ......  6 

The  Ingrate 11 

Sunset 13 

One  Who  Rejected  Christ     ....  17 

Grace 18 

Moonlight 24 

Street  Light 25 

Darkness 26 

Geometry 27 

The  Lover 31 

Dumb-Bells 33 

Overtures    . 35 

Under  the  Locusts 37 

Worship 39 

The  Cloak  Model 41 

By  the  Riverside 43 

The  Bachelor 45 


xii  Contents 

PAGE 

Roses 47 

November 49 

A  Christmas  Colloquy 53 

The  Power  of  God 57 

The  Resurrection 60 

Men 61 

The  Christian 62 

Morning 63 

April 64 

Wrestling 65 

Prayer 67 

Friendship 69 

The  Four  Roses 71 

The  School 72 

Sickness 74 


POEMS  ABOUT  GOD 


THE  SWIMMER 

In  dog-days  plowmen  quit  their  toil, 
And  frog-ponds  in  the  meadow  boil, 
And  grasses  on  the  upland  broil, 
And  all  the  coiling  things  uncoil, 
And  eggs  and  meats  and  Christians  spoil. 

A  mile  away  the  valley  breaks 

(So  all  good  valleys  do)  and  makes 

A  cool  green  water  for  hot  heads'  sakes. 

And   sundry   sullen  dog-days'   aches. 

The  swimmer's  body  is  white  and  clean,  *" 
It  is  washed  by  a  water  of  deepest  green 
The  color  of  leaves  in  a  starlight  scene, 
And  it  is  as  white  as  the  stars  between. 

But  the  swimmer's  soul  is  a  thing  possessed, 
His  soul  is  naked  as  his  breast, 
Remembers  not  its  east   and  west, 
And  ponders  this  way,  I  have  guessed : 


4  The  Swimmer 

I  have  no  home  in  the  cruel  heat 
On  alien  soil  that  blisters  feet. 
This  water  is  my  native  seat, 
And  more  than  ever  cool  and  sweet, 
So  long  by  forfeiture  escheat. 

0  my  forgiving  element ! 

1  gash  you  to  my  heart's  content 
And  never  need  be  penitent, 

So  light  you  float  me  when  breath  is  spent 
And  close  again  where  my  rude  way  went. 

And  now  you  close  above  my  head, 

And  I  lie  low  in  a  soft  green  bed 

That  dog-days  never  have  visited. 

"  By  the  sweat  of  thy  face  shalt  thou  eat  bread : 

The  garden's  curse  is  at  last  unsaid. 

What  do  I  need  of  senses  five? 
Why  eat,  or  drink,  or  sweat,  or  wive  ? 
What  do  we  strive  for  when  we  strive? 
What  do  we  live  for  when  alive  ? 

And  what  if  I  do  not  rise  again, 
Never  to  goad  a   heated   brain 
To  hotter  excesses  of  joy  and  pain? 


The  Swimmer 

Why  should  it  be  against  the  grain 
To  lie  so  cold  and  still  and  sane  ? 

Water-bugs  play  shimmer-shimmer, 
Naked  body's  just  a  glimmer, 
Watch  ticks  every  second  grimmer: 
Come  to  the  top,  O  wicked  swimmer! 


NOONDAY  GRACE 

My  good  old  father  tucked  his  head, 
(His  face  the  color  of  gingerbread) 
Over  the  table  my  mother  had  spread, 
And  folded  his  leathery  hands  and  said : 

"  We  thank  thee,  Lord,  for  this  thy  grace, 

And  all  thy  bounties  to  the  race; 

Turn  not  away  from  us  thy  face 

Till  we  come  to  our  final  resting-place." 

These  were  the  words  of  the  old  elect, 
Or  others  to  the  same  effect. 

I  love  my  father's  piety, 
I  know  he's  grateful  as  can  be, 
A  man  that's  nearly  seventy 
And  past  his  taste  for  cookery. 
But  I  am  not  so  old  as  he, 
And  when  I  see  in  front  of  me 
Things  that  I  like  uncommonly, 

6 


Noonday  Grace 

(Cornfield  beans  my  specialty, 
When  every  pod  spills  two  or  three), 
Then  I  forget  the  thou  and  thee 
And  pray  with  total  fervency : 

Thank  you,  good  Lord,  for  dinner-time! 
Gladly  I  come  from  the  sweat  and  grime 
To  play  in  your  Christian  pantomime. 

I  wash  the  black  dust  from  my  face, 
I  sit  again  in  a  Christian's  place, 
I  hear  the  ancient  Christian's  grace. 

My  thanks  for  clean  fresh  napkin  first, 
With  faint  red  stain  where  the  fruit- jar  burst. 

Thanks  for  a  platter  with  kind  blue  roses, 
For  mother's  centerpiece  and  posies, 
A  touch  of  art  right  under  our  noses. 

Mother,  I'll  thank  you  for  tumbler  now 
Of  morning's  milk  from  our  Jersey  cow. 

And  father,  thanks  for  a  generous  yam, 
And  a  helping  of  home-cured  country  ham, 
(He  knows  how  fond  of  it  I  am.) 


8  Noondcy  Grace 

For  none  can  cure  them  as  can  he, 

And  he  won't  tell  his  recipe, 

But  God  was  behind  it,  it  seems  to  me. 

Thank  God  who  made  the  garden  grow, 
Who  took  upon  himself  to  know 
That  we  loved  vegetables  so. 
I  served  his  plan  with  rake  and  hoe, 
And  mother,  boiling,  baking,  slow 
To  her  favorite  tune  of  Old  Black  Joe, 
Predestined  many  an  age  ago. 

Pearly  corn  still  on  the  cob, 
My  teeth  are  aching  for  that  job. 

Tomatoes,  one  would  fill  a  dish, 
Potatoes,  mealy  as  one  could  wish. 

Cornfield  beans  and  cucumbers, 
And  yellow  yams  for  sweeteners. 

Pickles  between  for  stepping-stones, 
And  plenty  of  cornmeal  bread  in  pones. 

Sunday  the  preacher  droned  a  lot 
About  a  certain  whether  or  not : 


Noonday  Grace 

Is  God  the  universal  friend, 
And  if  men  pray  can  he  attend 
To  each  man's  individual  end? 

They  pray  for  individual  things, 
Give  thanks  for  little  happenings, 
But  isn't  his  sweep  of  mighty  wings 
Meant  more  for  businesses  of  kings 
Than  pulling  small  men's  petty  strings  ? 

He's  infinite,  and  all  of  that, 
The  setting  sun  his  habitat, 
The  heavens  they  hold  by  his  fiat, 
The  glorious  year  that  God  begat; 
And  what  is  creeping  man  to  that, 
O  preacher,  valiant  democrat? 

"  The  greatest  of  all,  his  sympathy, 
His  kindness,  reaching  down  to  me." 

Like  mother,  he  finds  it  his  greatest  joy 
To  have  big  dinners  for  his  boy. 

She  understands  him  like  a  book, 

In  fact,  he  helps  my  mother  cook, 

And  slips  to  the  dining-room  door  to  look; 


IO  Noonday  Grace 

And  when  we  are  at  our  noon-day  meal, 
He  laughs  to  think  how  fine  we  feel. 

An  extra  fork  is  by  my  plate, 
I  nearly  noticed  it  too  late! 

Mother,  you're  keeping  a  secret  back ! 
I  see  the  pie-pan  through  the  crack, 
Incrusted  thick  in  gold  and  black. 

There's  no  telling  what  that  secret  pair 
Have  cooked  for  me  in  the  kitchen  there, 

There's  no  telling  what  that  pie  can  be, 
But  tell  me  that  it's  blackberry! 

As  long  as  I  keep  topside  the  sod, 
I'll  love  you  always,  mother  and  God. 


THE  INGRATE 

By  night  we  looked  across  my  field, 
The  tasseled  corn  was  fine  to  see, 
The  moon  was  yellow  on  the  rows 
And  seemed  so  wonderful  to  me, 
That  with  an  old  provincial  pride 
I  praised  my  moonlit  Tennessee, 
And  thought  my  poor  befriended  man 
Would  never  dare  to  disagree. 

He  was  a  frosty  Russian  man 
And  wore  a  bushy  Russian  beard; 
He  had  two  furtive  faded  eyes 
That  some  old  horror  once  had  seared; 
I  wondered  if  they  ever  would 
Forget  the  horrors  they  had  feared; 
Yet  when  I  praised  my  pleasant  field 
This  stupid  fellow  almost  jeered. 

"  Your  moon  shines  very  well,  my  friend, 
Your  fields  are  good  enough,  I  know; 


12  The  Ingrate 

At  home  our  fields  in  the  winter-time 
Were  always  white,  and  shining  so ! 
Our  nights  went  beautiful  like  day, 
And  bitter  cold  our  winds  would  blow; 
And  I  remember  how  it  looked, 
Dear  God,  my  country  of  the  snow ! " 


SUNSET 

I  know  you  are  not  cruel, 

And  you  would  not  willingly  hurt  anything  in 

the  world. 
There  is  kindness  in  your  eyes, 
There  could  not  very  well  be  more  of  it  in  eyes 
Already  brimful  of  the  sky. 
I  thought  you  would  some  day  begin  to  love  me, 
But  now  I  doubt  it  badly; 
It  is  no  man-rival  I  am  afraid  of, 
It  is  God. 

The  meadows  are  very  wide  and  green, 

And  the  big  field  of  wheat  is  solid  gold, 

Or  a  little  darker  than  gold. 

Two  people  never  sat  like  us  by  a  fence  of  cedar 

rails 
On  a  still  evening 
And  looked  at  such  fat  fields. 
To  me  it  is  beautiful  enough, 
I  am  stirred, 

13 


14  Sunset 

I  say  grand  and  wonderful,  and  grow  adjectival, 
But  to  you 
It  is  God. 

Cropping  the  clover  are  several  spotted  cows. 

They  too  are  kind  and  gentle, 

And  they  stop  and  look  round  at  me  now  and  then 

As  if  they  would  say: 

"  How  good  of  you  to  come  to  see  us ! 

Please  pardon  us  if  we  seem  indifferent, 

But  we  have  not  much  time  to  talk  with  you  now, 

And  really  nothing  to  say." 

Then  they  make  their  bow, 

Still  kind  and  calm, 

And  go  their  way  again 

Towards  the  sunset. 

I  suppose  they  are  going  to  God. 

Your  eyes  are  not  regarding  me, 

Nor  the  four-leaf  clovers  I  picked  for  you, 

(With  a  prayer  and  a  gentle  squeeze  for  each  of 

them), 
Nor  are  they  fretting  over  dress,  and  shoes, 
And  image  in  the  little  glass, 
Restlessly, 
Like  the  eyes  of  other  girls. 


Sunset  15 

You  are  looking  away  over  yonder 

To  where  the  crooked  rail- fence  gets  to  the  top 

Of  the  yellow  hill 

And  drops  out  of  sight 

Into  space. 

Is  that  infinity  that  catches  it? 

And  do  you  catch  it  too  in  your  thoughts? 

I  know  that  look; 

I  have  not  seen  it  on  another  girl; 

And  it  terrifies  me, 

For  I  cannot  tell  what  it  means, 

But  I  think 

It  has  something  to  do  with  God. 

We  are  a  mile  from  home, 

And  soon  it  will  be  getting  dark, 

And  the  big  farm-bell  will  be  ringing  out  for 

supper. 
We  had  better  start  for  the  house. 
Rover ! 

O  here  he  is,  waiting. 

He  has  chased  the  rabbits  and  run  after  the  birds 
A  thousand  miles  or  so, 
And  now  he  is  hungry  and  tired. 
But  he  is  a  southern  gentleman 


1 6  Sunset 

And  will  not  whimper  once 

Though  you  kept  him  waiting  forever. 

He  knows  his  mistress'  eyes  as  well  as  I, 

And  when  to  be  silent  and  respectful. 

I  will  try  to  be  as  patient  as  Rover, 

And  we  will  be  comrades  and  wait, 

Unquestioningly, 

Till  this  lady  we  love 

And  her  strange  eyes 

Come  home  from  God. 


ONE  WHO  REJECTED  CHRIST 

There's  farmers  and  there's  farmers, 
There's  many  a  field  and  field, 
But  none  of  the  farmers  round  about 
Can  haul  such  harvest-wagons  out 
As  I  from  an  acre's  yield. 

There's  plenty  and  plenty  of  farmers 

That  leave  the  ground  by  the  fence, 

Thinking  it's  nice  if  a  patch  of  roses 

Should  scratch  out  the  hay  and  tickle  their  noses 

With  nice  little  wild-rose  scents. 

I'm  not  like  other  farmers, 
I  make  my  farming  pay; 
I  never  go  in  for  sentiment, 
And  seeing  that  roses  yield  no  rent 
I  cut  the  stuff  away. 

A  very  good  thing  for  farmers 
If  they  would  learn  my  way; 
For  crops  are  all  that  a  good  field  grows, 
And  nothing  is  worse  than  a  sniff  of  rose 
In  the  good  strong  smell  of  hay. 
17 


GRACE 

Who  is  it  beams  the  merriest 
At  killing  a  man,  the  laughing  one? 
You  are  the  one  I  nominate, 
God  of  the  rivers  of  Babylon. 

A  hundred  times  I've  taken  the  mules 

And  started  early  through  the  lane, 

And  come  to  the  broken  gate  and  looked, 

And  there  my  partner  was  again, 

Sitting  on  top  of  a  sorrel  horse 

And  picking  the  burrs  from  its  matted  mane, 

Saying  he  thought  he'd  help  me  work 

That  field  of  corn  before  the  rain; 

And  I  never  spoke  of  the  dollar  a  day, 

It's  no  use  causing  hired  men  pain, 

But  slipped  it  into  his  hand  at  dark 

While  he  undid  the  coupling  chain; 

And  whistled  a  gospel  tune,  and  knew 

He'd  join  in  strong  on  the  refrain. 

18 


Grace  19 

For  I  would  pitch  the  treble  high, 

"  Down  at  the  cross  where  my  Savior  died/' 

And  then  he  rolled  along  the  bass, 

"  There  did  I  bury  my  sin  and  pride." 

Sinful  pride  of  a  hired  man! 

Out  of  a  hired  woman  born ! 

I'm  thinking  now  how  he  was  saved 

One  day  while  plowing  in  the  corn. 

We  plowed  that  steamy  morning  through, 

I  with  the  mule  whose  side  was  torn, 

And  keeping  an  eye  on  the  mule  I  saw 

That  the  sun  looked  high  and  the  man  looked 

,>  worn; 
I  would  take  him  home  to  dinner  with  me, 
And  there!  my  father's  dinner  horn. 

The  sun  blazed  after  dinner  so 
We  sat  a  while  by  the  maple  trees, 
Thinking  of  mother's  pickles  and  pies 
And  smoking  a  friendly  pipe  at  ease. 
I  broached  a  point  of  piety, 
For  pious  men  are  quick  to  tease : 
Was  it  really  true  John  dipped  his  crowd 
Down  in  the  muddy  Jordan's  lees  ? 


20  Grace 

And  couldn't  the  Baptists  backslide  too 
If  only  they  went  on  Methodist  sprees? 
And  finally  back  to  the  field  we  went, 
The  corn  was  well  above  my  knees, 
The  weeds  were  more  than  ankle  high, 
And  dangerous  customers  were  these. 
We  went  to  work  in  the  heat  again, 
I  hoped  we'd  get  a  bit  of  breeze 
And  thought  the  hired  man  was  used 
To  God's  most  blazing  cruelties. 

Sundays,  the  hired  man  would  pray 
To  live  in  the  sunshine  of  his  face; 
Now  here  was  answer  come  complete, 
Rather  an  overdose  of  grace! 

He  fell  in  the  furrow,  an  honest  place 

And  an  easy  place  for  a  man  to  fall. 

His  horse  went  marching  blindly  on 

In  a  beautiful  dream  of  a  great  fat  stall. 

And  God  shone  on  in  merry  mood, 

For  it  was  a  foolish  kind  of  sprawl, 

And  I  found  a  hulk  of  heaving  meat 

That  wouldn't  answer  me  at  all,, 

And  a  fresh  breeze  made  the  young  corn  dance 

To  a  bright  green,  glorious  carnival. 


Lrrace  21 

And  really,  is  it  not  a  gift 
To  smile  and  be  divinely  gay, 
To  rise  above  a  circumstance 
And  smile  distressing  scenes  away? 

But  this  was  a  thing  that  I  had  said, 
I  was  so  froward  and  untamed: 
"  I  will  not  worship  wickedness 
Though  it  be  God's — I  am  ashamed! 
For  all  his  mercies  God  be  thanked 
But  for  his  tyrannies  be  blamed ! 
He  shall  not  have  my  love  alone, 
With  loathing  too  his  name  is  named." 

I  caught  him  up  with  all  my  strength 
And  with  a  silly  stumbling  tread 
I  dragged  him  over  the  soft  brown  dirt 
And  dumped  him  down  beside  the  shed. 

I  thought  of  the  prayers  the  fool  had  prayed 
To  his  God,  and  I  was  seeing  red, 
When  all  of  a  sudden  he  gave  a  heave 
And  then  with  shuddering — vomited! 
And  God,  who  had  just  received  full  thanks 
For  all  his  kindly  daily  bread, 


22  Lrrace 

Now  called  it  back  again — perhaps 

To  see  that  his  birds  of  the  air  were  fed. 

Not  mother's  dainty  dinner  now, 

A  rather  horrible  mess  instead, 

Yet  all  of  it  God  required  of  him 

Before  the  fool  was  duly  dead. 

Even  of  deaths  there  is  a  choice, 
I've  seen  you  give  a  good  one,  God, 
But  he  in  his  vomit  laid  him  down, 
Denied  the  decency  of  blood. 

If  silence  from  the  dead,  I  swore, 

There  shall  be  cursing  from  the  quick! 

But  I  began  to  vomit  too, 

Cursing  and  vomit  ever  so  thick; 

The  dead  lay  down,  and  I  did  too, 

Two  ashy  idiots :  take  your  pick ! 

A  little  lower  than  angels  he  made  us, 

(Hear  his  excellent  rhetoric), 

A  credit  we  were  to  him,  half  of  us  dead, 

The  other  half  of  us  lying  sick. 

The  little  clouds  came  Sunday-dressed 
To  do  a  holy  reverence, 


Grace  23 

Tfie  young  corn  smelled  its  sweetest  too, 
And  made  him  goodly  frankincense, 
The  thrushes  offered  music  up, 
Choired  in  the  wood  beyond  the  fence. 

And  while  his  praises  filled  the  earth 
A  solitary  crow  sailed  by, 
And  while  the  whole  creation  sang 
He  cawed — not  knowing  how  to  sigh. 


MOONLIGHT 

He  feigned  a  fine  indifference 
To  be  so  prodigal  of  light, 
Knowing  his   piteous  twisted  things 
Would  lose  the  crooked  marks  of  spite 
When  only  moonbeams  lit  the  dusk 
And  made  his  wicked  world  seem  right. 

But  we  forget  so  soon  the  shame, 
Conceiving  sweetness  if  we  can, 
Heaven  the  citadel  itself 
Illumined   on  the  lunar  plan; 
And  I  the  chief  of  sinners,  I 
The  middlemost  Victorian! 

Now  I  shall  ride  the  misty  lake 
With  my  own  love,  and  speak  so  low 
That  not  a  fishy  thing  shall  hear 
The  secrets  passing  to  and  fro 
Amid  the  moonlight  poetries. 
O  moonshine,  how  unman  us  so? 
24 


STREET  LIGHT 

The  shine  of  many  city  streets 
Confuses  any  countryman; 
It  flickers  here  and  flashes  there, 
It  goes  as  soon  as  it  began, 
It  beckons  many  ways  at  once 
For  him  to  follow  if  he  can. 

Under  the  lamp  a  woman  stands, 
The  lamps  are  shining  equal  well, 
But  in  her  eyes  are  other  lights, 
And  lights  plus  other  lights  will  tell : 
He  loves  the  brightness  of  that  street 
Which  is  the  shining  street  to  hell. 

There's  light  enough,  and  strong  enough, 
To  lighten  every  pleasant  park; 
I'm  sorry  lights  are  held  so  cheap, 
I'd  rather  there  were  not  a  spark 
Than  choose  those  shining  ways  for  joy 
And  have  them  lead  me  into  dark. 
25 


DARKNESS 

When  hurrying  home  on  a  rainy  night 
And  hearing  tree-tops  rubbed  and  tossed, 
And  seeing  never  a  friendly  star 
And  feeling  your  way  when  paths  are  crossed : 
Stop  fast  and  turn  three  times  around 
And  try  the  logic  of  the  lost. 

Where  is  the  heavenly  light  you  dreamed? 
Where  is  your  hearth  and  glowing  ash? 
Where  is  your  love  by  the  mellow  moon? 
Here  is  not  even  a  lightning-flash, 
And  in  a  place  no  worse  than  this 
Lost  men  shall  wail  and  teeth  shall  gnash. 

Lightning  is  quick  and  perilous, 
The  dawn  comes  on  too  slow  and  pale, 
Your  love  brings  only  a  yellow  lamp, 
Yet  of  these  lights  one  shall  avail: 
The  dark  shall  break  for  one  of  these, 
I've  never  known  this  thing  to  fail. 

26 


GEOMETRY 

My  window  looks  upon  a  wood 
That  stands  as  tangled  as  it  stood 
When  God  was  centuries  too  young 
To  care  how  right  he  worked,  or  wrong, 
His  patterns  in  obedient  trees, 
Unprofited  by  the  centuries 
He  still  plants  on  as  crazily 
As  in  his  drivelling  infancy. 

Poor  little  elms  beneath  the  oak ! 
They  thrash  their  arms  around  and  poke 
At  tyrant  throats,  and  try  to  stand 
Straight  up,  like  owners  of  the  land; 
For  they  expect  the  vainest  things, 
And  even  the  boniest  have  their  flings. 

Hickory  shoots  unnumbered  rise, 
Sallow  and  wasting  themselves  in  sighs, 
Children  begot  at  a  criminal  rate 
In  the  sight  of  a  God  that  is  profligate. 
27 


28  Geometry 

The  oak-trees  tower  over  all, 
They  seem  to  rise  above  the  brawl, 
They  seem — but  just  observe  the  hoax, 
They  are  obscured  by  other  oaks ! 
They  laugh  the  weaklings  out  of  mind, 
And  fight  forever  with  their  kind. 

For  oaks  are  spindling  too,  and  bent, 

And  only  strong  by  accident; 

And  if  there  is  a  single  tree 

Of  half  the  size  it  ought  to  be, 

It  need  not  give  him  thanks  for  that, 

He  did  not  plan  its  habitat. 

When  tree-tops  go  to  pushing  so, 
There's  every  evil  thing  below; 
There's  clammy  fungus  everywhere, 
And  poison  waving  on  the  air, 
A  plague  of  insects  from  the  pool 
To  sting  some  ever-trusting  fool, 
Serpents  issuing  from  the  foot 
Of  oak-trees  rotten  at  the  root, 
Owls  and  frogs  and  whippoorwills, 
Cackling  of  all  sorts  of  ills. 


Geometry  29 

Imagine  what  a  pretty  thing 
The  slightest  landscape-gardening 
Had  made  of  God's  neglected  wood! 
I'm  glad  man  has  the  hardihood 
To  tamper  with  creation's  plan 
And  shape  it  worthier  of  man. 
Imagine  woods  and  sun-swept  spaces, 
Shadows  and  lights  in  proper  places, 
Trees  just  touching  friendly-wise, 
Bees  and  flowers  and  butterflies. 

An  easy  thing  to  improve  on  God, 
Simply  the  knowing  of  even  from  odd, 
Simply  to  count  and  then  dispose 
In  patterns  everybody  knows, 
Simply  to  follow  curve  and  line 
In  geometrical  design. 

Gardeners  only  cut  their  trees 

For  nobler  regularities. 

But  from  my  window  I  have  seen 

The  noblest  patch  of  quivering  green 

Lashed  till  it  never  quivered  again. 

God  had  a  fit  of  temper  then, 

And  spat  shrill  wind  and  lightning  out 

At  twinges  of  some  godly  gout. 


30  Geometry 

But  as  for  me,  I  keep  indoors 
Whenever  he  starts  his  awful  roars. 
What  can  one  hope  of  a  crazy  God 
But  lashings  from  an  aimless  rod? 


THE  LOVER 

I  sat  in  a  friendly  company 
And  wagged  my  wicked  tongue  so  well, 
My  friends  were  listening  close  to  hear 
The  wickedest  tales  that  I  could  tell. 
For  many  a  fond  youth  waits,  I  said, 
On  many  a  worthless  damozel ; 
But  every  trusting  fool  shall  learn 
To  wish  them  heartily  in  hell. 

And  when  your  name  was  spoken  too, 
I  did  not  change,  I  did  not  start, 
And  when  they  only  praised  and  loved, 
I  still  could  play  my  secret  part, 
Cursing  and  lies  upon  my  tongue, 
And  songs  and  shouting  in  my  heart. 

But  when  you  came  and  looked  at  me, 
You  tried  my  poor  pretence  too  much. 
O  love,  do  you  know  the  secret  now 
Of  one  who  would  not  tell  nor  touch? 
Must  I  confess  before  the  pack 
Of  babblers,  idiots,  and  such? 
31 


32  The  Lover 

Do  they  not  hear  the  burst  of  bells, 
Pealing  at  every  step  you  make? 
Are  not  their  eyelids  winking  too, 
Feeling  your  sudden  brightness  break? 
O  too  much  glory  shut  with  us! 
O  walls  too  narrow  and  opaque! 
.    O  come  into  the  night  with  me 
And  let  me  speak,  for  Jesus'  sake. 


DUMB-BELLS 

Dumb-bells  left,  dumb-bells  right, 
Swing  them  hard,  grip  them  tight ! 
Thirty  fat  men  of  the  town 
Must  sweat  their  filthy  paunches  down. 
Dripping  sweat  and  pumping  blood 
They  try  to  make  themselves  like  God. 

One  and  two,  three  and  four, 
Cleave  the  air  and  smite  the  floor ! 
Five  and  six,  seven  and  eight, 
Legs  apart,  shoulders  straight! 
Thirty  fat  men  grunt  and  puff, 
Thirty  bellies  plead,  Enough ! 

Dumb-bells  up,  dumb-bells  down, 

Dumb-bells  front,  dumb-bells  ground ! 

Thirty's  God  has  just  the  girth 

To  pull  the  levers  of  the  earth, 

They  made  him  sinewy  and  lean 

And  washed  him  glittering  white  and  clean. 

33 


34  Dumb-Bells 

Dumb-bells  in,  dumb-bells  out, 
Count  by  fours  and  face  about ! 
Put  by  dumb-bells  for  to-day, 
Wash  the  stinking  sweat  away 
And  go  out  clean.    But  come  again; 
Worship's  every  night  at  ten. 


OVERTURES 

My  dear  and  I,  we  disagreed 
When  we  had  been  much  time  together. 
For  when  will  lovers  learn  to  sail 
From  sailing  always  in  good  weather? 

She  said  a  hateful  little  word 
Between  the  pages  of  the  book. 
I  bubbled  with  a  noble  rage, 
I  bruised  her  with  a  dreadful  look, 

And  thanked  her  kindly  for  the  word 
Of  such  a  little  silly  thing; 
Indeed  I  loved  my  poet  then 
Beyond  my  dear,  or  anything. 

And  she,  the  proud  girl,  swept  away, 
How  swift  and  scornfully  she  went! 
And  I  the  frightened  lover  stayed, 
And  have  not  had  one  hour's  content 

35 


36  Overtures 

Until  to-day;  until  I  knew 
That  I  was  loved  again,  again; 
Then  hazard  how  this  thing  befel, 
Brother  of  women  and  of  men? 

"Perhaps  a  gallant  gentleman 
Accomplished  it,  who  saw  yon  bleed; 
Perhaps  she  wrote  upon  the  book 
A  riddling  thing  that  you  could  read; 

"  Perhaps  she  crept  to  you,  and  cried, 
And  took  upon  her  all  the  blame." 
O  no,  do  proud  girls  creep  and  cry? 
"  Perhaps  she  zvhispercd  you  your  name.' 

O  no,  she  walked  alone,  and  I 
Was  walking  in  the  rainy  wood, 
And  saw  her  drooping  by  the  tree, 
And  saw  my  work  of  widowhood. 


UNDER  THE  LOCUSTS 

What  do  the  old  men  say, 
Sitting  out  of  the  sun  ? 
Many  strange  and  common  things, 
And  so  would  any  one. 

Locust  trees  are  sorry  shade, 
They  are  good  enough; 
Locust  trees  are  sweet  in  spring 
For  trees  so  old  and  tough. 

Dick's  a  sturdy  little  lad 
Yonder  throwing  stones; 
Agues  and  rheumatic  pains 
Will  fiddle  on  his  bones. 

Grinny  Bob  is  out  again 
Begging  for  a  dime ; 
Niggers  haven't  any  souls, 
Grinning  all  the  time. 
37 


38  Under  the  Locusts 

Jenny  and  Will  go  arm  in  arm. 
He's  a  lucky  fellow; 
Jenny's  cheeks  are  pink  as  rose, 
Her  mother's  cheeks  are  yellow. 

War  is  on,  the  paper  says, 
Wounds  and  enemies; 
Now  young  gallivanting  bucks 
Will  know  what  trouble  is. 

Parson's  coming  up  the  hill, 

Meaning  mighty  well; 

Thinks  he's  preached  the  doubters  down. 

And  old  men  never  tell. 


WORSHIP 

I  know  a  quite  religious  man 
Who  utters  praises  when  he  can. 

Now  I  find  God  in  bard  and  book, 
In  school  and  temple,  bird  and  brook. 

But  he  says  God  is  sweetest  of  all 
Discovered  in  a  drinking-hall. 

For  God  requires  no  costly  wine 

But  comes  on  the  foam  of  a  crockery  stein. 

And  when  that  foam  is  on  the  lips, 
Begin  then  God's  good  fellowships. 

Cathedrals,  synagogues,  and  kirks 
May  go  to  the  devil,  and  all  their  works. 

And  as  for  Christian  charity, 
It's  made  out  of  hilarity. 

39 


4-0  Worship 

He  gives  the  beggar  all  his  dimes, 
Forgives  his  brother  seven  times. 

"I  love  the  rain,"  says  thirsty  clod; 
So  this  religious  man  of  God. 

For  God  has  come,  and  is  it  odd 
He  praises  all  the  works  of  God? 

"  For  God  has  come,  and  there's  no  sorrow," 
He  sings  all  night — will  he  sing  to-morrow? 


THE  CLOAK  MODEL 

"  My  son,"  the  stranger  thus  began, 
And  drew  me  to  the  window  side, 
"  Now  here  are  beauties  better  than 
You  ever  have  dreamed,  or  ever  can. 
But  yet  beware !  "  he  cried. 

A  tidy  citizen  was  he 
Although  a  dismal  daffy  one. 
"  See  this  one  pose  and  pout  for  me 
And  march  around  magnificently. 
But  I'm  immune,  my  son. 

"  Observe  how  ripe  the  lady's  lips, 
How  Titianesque  the  mop  of  hair, 
And  where  the  great  white  shoulder  dips 
Beneath  its  gauzy  half -eclipse, 
You  well  may  stare  and  stare. 

"  When  I  was  young  I  said  as  you 
Are  saying  in  your  sapphic  youth, 

41 


42  The  Cloak  Model 

That  ah !  such  lips  were  certain  cue, 
And  look!  her  bosom's  rhythm  too, 
It  signified  her  truth; 

"  Her  broad  brow  meant  intelligence 
And  something  better  than  a  bone, 
Her  body's  curves  were  spirit's  tents, 
Her  fresh  young  skin  was  innocence 
Instead  of  meat  that  shone. 

"  I  wish  the  moralists  would  thresh 
(Indeed  the  thing  is  very  droll) 
God's  oldest  joke,  forever  fresh: 
The  fact  that  in  the  finest  flesh 
There  isn't  any  soul." 


BY  THE  RIVERSIDE 

A  great  green  spread  of  meadow  land, 
(Must  rest  his  weight  on  an  ample  base), 
A  secret  water  moving  on, 
A  clean  blue  air  for  his  breathing-space, 
A  pair  of  willows  bending  down 
In  double  witness  to  his  grace, 
And  on  the  rock  his  sinner  sprawls 
And  looks  the  Strong  One  face  to  face. 

The  sinner's  mocking  tongue  is  dry, 
Wonder  is  on  that  mighty  jeerer, 
He  loves,  and  he  never  loved  before, 
He  wants  the  glowing  sky  no  nearer, 
He  likes  the  willows  to  be  two, 
He  would  not  have  the  water  clearer, 
He  thinks  that  God  is  perfect  once: 
Heaven,  rejoice!  a  new  God- fearer. 

And  now  each  quiet  thing  awakes 
And  dances  madly,  wavers,  dips; 
These  are  God's  motions  on  the  air, 

43 


44  By  the  Riverside 

His  pulse  for  the  sinner's  finger-tips, 
His  arrows  shot  across  the  blue, 
His  love-words  dropping  from  his  lips, 
And  who  ever  heard  such  whisperings, 
Who  ever  saw  such  fellowships? 


THE  BACHELOR 

The  wind  went  cold  as  the  day  went  old, 
And  I  went  very  sad, 
Till  I  saw  something  by  the  road 
That  brought  me  round  and  glad. 

The  keen  wind  nipped  me  northerly 
And  bent  me  back  almost, 
And  I  was  the  worst  discouraged  man 
Abroad  on  any  boast, 

The  road  was  rocks  and  wilderness 
And  never  a  sign  of  a  town, 
It  tapered  up  a  wicked  hill, 
I  tried  to  curse  it  down, 

But  like  an  undefeated  man 

I  mounted,  slow  and  hard : 

And  round  the  top  was  a  little  house 

With  a  woman  in  the  yard. 

4S 


46  The  Bachelor 

She  was  a  housewife  in  her  yard, 
Tending  her  husband's  place; 
The  broom  was  busy  in  her  hand, 
The  goodness  in  her  face. 

She  brushed  the  yard,  she  brushed  the  step, 
She  made  the  leaves  to  spin, 
Tidying  up  her  husband's  place 
Outside  as  well  as  in. 

I  knew  no  woman  and  no  house 
And  night  was  just  ahead; 
Yet  I  went  cheerful  down  the  hill, 
Rested  and  warmed  and  fed. 

For  some  man  had  a  woman  there 
To  keep  his  board  and  bed; 
"  I  have  seen  women  by  these  bad  roads, 
Thank  God  for  that,"  I  said. 


ROSES 

I  entered  dutiful,  God  knows, 

The  room  in  which  I  was  to  sit 

With  dreary  unbelieving  books. 

It  was  surprising,  I  suppose, 

To  find  such  happy  change  in  it : 

There  stood  a  most  celestial  rose 

And  looked  the  flower  that  my  love  looks 

Who,  where  she  turns  her  smiling  face 

Makes  heavy  earth  a  hopeful  place. 

I  blessed  the  heart  that  wished  me  well 

When  I  had  been  bereft  of  much, 

And  brought  such  word  of  beauty  back. 

I  went  like  one  escaping  hell 

To  drink  its  fragrance  and  to  touch, 

And  stroked,  O  ludicrous  to  tell! 

A  horrid  thing  of  bric-a-brac, 

A  make-believe,  a  mockery, 

And  nothing  that  a  rose  should  be. 

47 


48  Roses 

Red  real  roses  keep  a  thorn, 
And  save  their  loveliness  a  while 
And  in  their  perfect  date  unfold. 
But  you,  beyond  all  women  born, 
Have  spent  so  easily  your  smile, 
That  I  am  not  the  less  forlorn 
Nor  these  ironic  walls  less  cold, 
Because  it  smiles,  the  chilly  rose, 
As  you  are  smiling,  I  suppose. 


NOVEMBER 

There's  a  patch  of  trees  at  the  edge  of  the  field, 
And  a  brown  little  house  that  is  kept  so  warm, 
And  a  woman  waiting  by  the  hearth 
Who  still  keeps  most  of  a  woman's  charm. 

She  traffics  in  her  woman's  goods 
And  is  my  woman  of  affairs. 
Yet  not  so  fast,  my  moral  men, 
November's  most  poetic  airs 
Are  heavy  with  old  lovers'  tales, 
How  hearths  are  holy  with  their  prayers, 
How  women  give  their  fragrance  up 
And  give  their  love  to  the  man  that  dares. 
Now  who  goes  heedless  hearing  that?    I 
At  last  we  trade,  we  laissez-faires. 

O  moralizers,  it  is  hard 

When  I  am  not  a  candidate 

For  holy  wedlock's  offices, 

That  mother  has  picked  me  out  a  mate, 

49 


£0  November 

And  couldn't  have  made  a  sorrier  choice 

Than  that  same  Smiley's  daughter  Kate, 

Who  prays  for  the  sinners  of  the  town 

And  never  comes  to  meeting  late, 

Who  sings  soprano  in  the  choir 

And  swallows  Christian  doctrine  straight. 

Of  all  the  girls  deliver  me 

From  the  girl  you  haven't  the  heart  to  hate ! 

Piety :  O  what  a  hideous  thing ! 

And  thirty-odd  pounds  she's  underweight. 

The  winds  of  late  November  droop 

(Poor  little  failures)  very  low, 

As  up  and  down  the  farm  they  pass, 

Pass  up  and  down,  and  to  and  fro, 

And  look  for  a  home  they  are  not  to  find, 

For  they  were  homeless  years  ago. 

But  years  ago  I  knew  a  girl, 
Beautiful,  fit  for  a  Grand  Vizier's, 
A  girl  with  laughing  on  her  lips 
And  in  her  eyes  the  quickest  tears, 
And  low  of  speech,  as  when  one  finds 
A  mother  cooing  to  her  dears. 
I  took  the  note  into  my  heart, 
And  so  did  other  cavaliers. 


November  51 

If  God  had  heard  my  prayer  then, 
The  good  folk  couldn't  point  and  say 
As  mother  says  they're  pointing  now: 
Behold,  one  stands  in  the  sinners'  way! 
The  stiffest  sceptic  bends  his  neck 
And  stands  on  no  more  vain  parley 
If  such  as  she  would  have  him  come, 
Worship  with  her  in  the  Baptist  way, 
Accept  the  fables  as  he  can, 
A  Jewish  God,  a  Passion  Play; 
And  such  a  lover  never  comes 
To  fondling  dirty  drabs  for  pay. 
But  God  had  another  man  for  her, 
He  cannot  answer  all  that  pray. 

November  winds  are  weak  and  cold, 
They  lie  at  last  beneath  the  blue 
And  sleep  in  the  fields  as  cold  as  they. 
I  know  but  one  good  thing  to  do, 
So  hearken,  all  ye  mutineers : 
Every  man  to  his  rendezvous! 

My  woman  waits  by  the  hearth,  I  say, 
And  what  is  a  scarlet  woman  to  you  ? 
Her  sins  are  scarlet  if  you  will, 
Her  lips  are  hardly  of  that  hue, 


52  November 

And  many  a  time  I've  seen  her  sit 

Beside  the  hearth  an  hour  or  two, 

And  set  the  pot  upon  the  fire 

And  wait  until  she's  spoken  to. 

A  hateful  owl  is  roosting  near 

Who  mocks  my  woman,  Hoo,  Hoo,  Hoo, 

But  the  pot  sings  back  just  as  shrill  as  it  can, 

And  the  angry  fire-log  crashes  through; 

And  there  the  woman  waits,  and  I, 

I  ponder  the  ways  of  God — and  rue! 


■±r? 


A  CHRISTMAS  COLLOQUY 

The  country  farmer  has  his  joys 
Of  little  city  girls  and  boys 
When  brother  Thomas  brings  his  brood  j  I   , 
Of  motherless  brats  in  Christmas  mood  //^ 
To  try  our  country  air  and  food. 
And  O  what  splendid  pies  and  cakes 
Their  pleased  and  pretty  grandma  makes ! 
And  O  what  squeals  and  stomach-aches  I 

Poor  Thomas  shepherds  him  a  flock 

Of  city  souls  as  hard  as  rock, 

And  though  they  will  not  fill  his  larder 

He  only  preaches  Christ  the  harder. 

But  Ann,  though  seven  years  my  niece, 

Is  still  a  pagan  little  piece, 

And  as  she  often  hints  to  me 

She  hates  the  sound  of  piety. 

Fair  Inez  is  my  ancient  setter 

Who  lies  by  the  fire  when  we  will  let  her: 

Alas,  this  amiable  dog 

Heard  all  the  bitter  dialogue 

That  passed  between  my  niece  and  brother 

Misunderstanding  one  another. 

£3 


54  A  Christmas  Colloquy 

Ann: 

Father,  what  will  there  be  for  me 
To-morrow  on  the  Christmas  tree? 
Have  you  told  Santa  what  to  bring, 
My  pony,  my  doll,  and  everything? 

Thomas  : 

My  daughter,  Santa  will  know  best 

What  to  bring  you,  and  what  the  rest. 

But  father  and  his  little  girl 

And  everybody  in  the  world 

Should  dwell  to-night  on  higher  things, 

For  hark!  the  herald  angel  sings, 

And  in  a  manger  poor  and  lowly 

Lies  little  Jesus,  high  and  holy. 

Ann: 

Father,  don't  talk  of  little  Jesus, 

You're  only  doing  it  to  tease  us, 

It  isn't  nearly  time  for  bed, 

And  I  want  to  know  what  Santa  said. 

Thomas  : 

Jesus  is  better  than  any  toys 
For  little  sinning  girls  and  boys, 
For  Jesus  saves,  but  sin  destroys. 


A  Christmas  Colloquy  55 

And  O,  it  gives  him  sad  surprise, 
There  must  be  tears  in  Jesus'  eyes, 
When  little  girls  with  bad  behavior 
Forget  to  own  their  Lord  and  Savior. 

Ann: 

I  didn't,  you  know  it  isn't  true ! 

I  say  my  prayers,  I  always  do, 

I  know  about  Jesus  very  well, 

And  God  the  Father,  Heaven,  and  Hell. 

O  please  don't  say  it  any  more, 

You've  said  it  so  many  times  before, 

But  tell  me  all  about  Santa  instead, 

And  about  the  horns  on  his  reindeer's  head, 

And  what  he  will  bring  me  on  his  sled. 

Thomas  : 

This  night  he  was  born  on  earth  for  us, 

And  can  my  daughter  mock  him  thus, 

And  care  more  for  her  worldly  pleasures 

Than  Jesus'  love  and  heavenly  treasures? 

For  Jesus  didn't  like  to  be 

So  crowned  with  thorns  and  nailed  to  tree, 

But  there  was  a  sinful  world  to  free, 

And  out  he  went  to  Gethsemane — 


56  A  Christmas  Colloquy 

Ann: 

And  left  the  twelve  and  went  apart — 

0  father,  I  know  it  off  by  heart, 
Please,  father,  please  don't  finish  it  out, 
There's  so  much  else  to  talk  about! 

1  ask  about  Santa,  and  there  you  go, 
And  now  you're  spoiling  my  Christmas  so, 
And  you  are  the  wickedest  man  I  know ! 

Disgraceful  scenes  require  the  curtain, 
But  lest  the  moral  be  uncertain, 
I  briefly  bring  the  good  report 
That  valiant  Thomas  held  the  fort, 
And  wicked  Ann  was  quite  defeated, 
In  vain  denied,  in  vain  entreated, 
In  vain  she  wailed,  in  vain  she  wept, 
And  said  a  briny  prayer,  and  slept. 
While  Inez,  who  had  been  perplexed 
To  see  good  kinsfolk  so  much  vexed, 
When  peace  descended  on  the  twain, 
Lay  down  beside  the  fire  again. 


THE  POWER  OF  GOD 

If  the  power  of  God  were  mine,  and  the  ample 

turn, 
I  never  could  dwell  in  my  law,  which  is  'stablished 

and  stern, 

But  my  pity  would  plague  me  still !     In  the  fare 

of  my  state 
I  would  summon  my  ministers  often  to  reprobate : 

"  Do  ye  see  them  walk  on  the  unwaked  streets  of 

the  town  ? 
Are  they  not  of  my  handmaidens,  burdened  and 

bending  down? 

"  It  is  not  yet  day,  and  my  tale  of  the  stars  not 
told, 

But  already  they  bear  of  their  burdens,  and  trem- 
ble of  cold. 

"  Do  ye  heed  not  her,  ye  stony  and  reconciled, 
One  gathering  sticks  for  a  fire,  who  is  heavy  with 
child? 

57 


58  The  Power  of  God 

"  And   one  was   so   heavy   with   sleep   that   she 

watched  not,  and  slept 
Till  it  nearly  was  dawn,  and  then  she  arose  and 

wept. 

"  Previsal  I  made,  and  the  burning  of  quenchless 

gold, 
Yet  still  they  bedevil  my  kingdom,  the  dark  and 

the  cold. 

"  There  is  labor  appointed,  I  know  not  if  it  shall 

cease, 
Yet  anon  cometh  night,  and  my  daughters  shall 

lie  in  peace. 

"  What  avoideth  my  glory  of  firmaments  keeping 

the  way, 
If  the  poor  soft  flesh  must  trouble  before  the  day? 

"Or  spectacular  stars,  as  they  race  to  encircuit 

the  deep, 
If  my  littlest  people  is  driven,  and  needeth  sleep? 

"  For  my  absolute  heaven  is  high,  and  nothing 
dependeth, 


The  Power  of  God  59 

Yet   it   twitcheth   my   heart,   when   weeping  of 
women  ascendeth. 


"  Then  arrange  ye  again  how  the  people's  task  be 

done, 
There  shall  no  woman  toil  till  they  see  my  sign 

of  the  sun." 


THE  RESURRECTION 

Long,  long  before  men  die  I  sometimes  read 

Their  stoic  backs  as  plain  as  graveyard  stones, 

An  epitaph  of  poor  dead  men  indeed. 

I  never  pass  those  old  and  crooked  bones, 

Ridden  far  down  with  burden  and  with  age, 

Stopping  the  headlong  highway  till  they  lean 

Aside  in  honor  of  my  equipage, 

But  I  am  sick  and  shamed  that  Heaven  has  been 

So  clumsy  with  the  inelastic  clay! 

"  What  pretty  piece  of  hope  then  have  you  spun, 

My  old  defeated  traveler,"  I  say, 

"  That  keeps  you  marching  on?    For  I  have  none. 

I  have  looked  often  and  I  have  not  found 

Old  men  bowed  low  who  ever  rose  up  sound." 


60 


MEN 

"  How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here !  " 
Miranda  doted  on  the  sight  of  seamen, 
The  very  casual  adventurers 
Who  took  a  flood  as  quickly  as  a  calm, 
And  kept  their  blue  eyes  blue  to  any  weather. 
This  was  the  famous  manliness  of  men; 
And  when  she  saw  it  on  the  dirty  strangers, 
She  clapped  her  pretty  hands  in  sudden  joy: 
"  O  brave  new  world ! " 


6t 


THE  CHRISTIAN 

I  heard  a  story  of  a  sailing  man. 

He  was  a  surly  sort  of  mariner, 

He  used  to  swear  at  all  the  seven  seas, 

And  rode  them  dauntless  up  and  down  the  earth. 

But  when  he  sickened  of  the  windy  wash, 
He  took  to  wife  a  proper  village  woman 
And  put  her  in  a  precious  little  house ; 
And  there  he  weathered  many  winter  seasons, 
Knocking  the  ashes  neatly  from  his  pipe 
Upon  the  tended  hearth. 

And  only  when  he  went  upon  the  moors, 
And  felt  the  sting  and  censure  of  the  winds, 
And  tasted  of  the  salt  blown  in  from  sea, 
Then  only  would  he  curse  the  marriage  morning, 
And  swear  he'd  not  go  skulking  back  again 
To  sit  that  hearth  like  any  broken  bitch 
Whose  running  time  was  over. 


62 


MORNING 

The  skies  were  jaded,  while  the  famous  sun 
Slack  of  his  office  to  confute  the  fogs 
Lay  sick  abed;  but  I,  inured  to  duty, 
Sat  for  my  food.    Three  hours  each  day  we  souls, 
Who  might  be  angels  but  are  fastened  down 
With  bodies,  most  infuriating  freight, 
Sit  fattening  these  frames  and  skeletons 
With  filthy  food,  which  they  must  cast  away 
Before  they  feed  again. 


«3 


APRIL 

Savor  of  love  is  thick  on  the  April  air, 

The  blunted  boughs  dispose  their  lacy  bloom, 

And  many  sorry  steeds  dismissed  to  pasture 

Toss  their  old  forelocks,  flourish  heavy  heels. 

Where  is  there  any  unpersuaded  poet 

So  angry  still  against  the  wrongs  of  winter 

Which  caused  the  dainty  earth  to  droop  and  die, 

So  vengeant  for  his  vine  and  summer  song, 

As  to  decline  the  good  releasing  thaw  ? 

Poets  have  temperature  and  follow  seasons, 

And  covenants  go  out  at  equinox. 

The  champions !    For  Heaven,  riding  high 
Above  the  icy  death,  considered  truly; 
"  My  agate  icy  work,  I  thought  it  fair; 
Yet  I  have  lacked  that  pretty  lift  of  praise 
That  mounted  once  from  these  emaciate  minstrels. 
They  will  not  sing,  and  duty  drops  away 
And  I  must  turn  and  make  a  soft  amend !  " 
At  once  he  showered  April  down,  until 
The  bleak  twigs  bloom  again;  and  soon,  I  swear, 
He  shall  receive  his  praise. 

64 


-  WRESTLING 

At  last  came  threshing-time,  the  manly  season. 
We  kept  the  thresher  thundering  by  daylight, 
And  rested  all  the  sweeter  after  dark, 
Telling  of  tales,  and  washing  in  the  river. 
But  one  there  was,  some  twenty  miles  a  stranger, 
Who  boasted  that  he  was  a  mighty  wrestler 
And  had  not  met  that  valiant  pair  of  shoulders 
That  he  could  not  put  down. 

We  had  a  champion  there.     He  looked  and  lis- 
tened, 
He  measured  off  his  man,  he  made  his  mind  up, 
And  thus  he  brought  great  honor  to  his  county: 
"  My  friend,  I've  heard  you  bragging,  heard  you 

braying, 
And  now  I  say,  for  God's  sake  come  and  wrestle." 
And  thus  appealed,  the  other  came,   for  God's 

sake, 
And  they  did  wrestle. 

65 


66  Wrestling 

They  sprang,   they  gripped,   they  strained  and 

rocked  and  twisted, 
They   pounded    much    good    sod    to    dust    and 

powder, 
They  ripped  the  garments  off  each  other  vainly 
And  showed  us  many  naked  bulging  muscles, 
And  still  were  even. 

But  while  the  tide  of  battle  ran  so  equal, 
I  heard  a  sound,  I  took  it  for  a  voice, 
I  almost  saw  it,  spitting  out  a  passage 
Between  the  haggard  jaws  of  my  poor  hero, 
The  voice  as  of  a  man  almost  despairing, 
Hoping  again  though  all  his  hopes  had  failed : 
"  By  God,  I'll  have  you  down  in  one  more  min- 
ute!" 
And  it  was  as  he  said ;  for  in  a  minute 
He  had  him  down,  by  God. 


PRAYER 

She  would  no.  keep  at  home,  the  foolish  woman, 
She  would  not  mind  her  precious  girls  and  boys, 
She  had  to  go,  for  it  was  Sunday  morning, 
Down  the  hot  road  and  to  the  barren  pew 
And  there  abuse  her  superannuate  knees 
To  make  a  prayer. 

She  had  a  huge  petition  on  her  bosom — 
A  heavy  weight  for  such  a  lean  old  thing — 
Her  youngest  boy  made  merry  in  the  village 
And  had  not  entered  into  the  communion; 
And  having  labored  with  him  long  for  nothing 
She  meant  to  ask  of  God  to  save  him  yet. 
Thank  God  she  asked  that  favor! 

The  manner  of  it  echoes  still  in  Heaven. 
Before  she  dared  to  utter  her  desire 
The  strange  old  woman  made  approach  to  God 
With  many  a  low  obeisance  and  abasement, 
As  having  done  so  many  things  she  ought  not, 

67 


68  Prayer 

And  left  undone  so  many  things  she  ought, 
And  being  altogether  very  wicked; 
She  testified  she  had  not  kept  his  temple, 
Which  was  her  heart,  all  swept  and  white  and 

ready; 
She  testified  it — O  the  shameless  woman, 
The  spotless  housekeeper ! 

Now  God  sat  beaming  on  his  burnished  throne 
And  swept  creation  with  appraising  eye, 
Finding,  I  fear,  not  all  was  free  from  blemish, 
Yet  keeping  his  magnificent  composure ; 
But  wearing  certain  necessary  airs, 
To  suit  with  such  incumbency  of  court, 
He  still  at  heart  was  quite  a  gentleman; 
For  when  he  saw  that  aged  lady  drooping 
And  wearying  her  bones  with  genuflections 
For  her  unworthiness,  he  fell  ashamed 
To  think  how  hard  it  went  with  holy  women 
To  ease  their  poor  predicaments  by  prayer : 
There  on  his  heaven,  and  heard  of  all  the  hosts, 
He  groaned,  he  made  a  mighty  face  so  wry 
That  several  seraphin  forgot  their  harping 
And  scolded  thus :  "  O  what  a  wicked  woman, 
To  shrew  his  splendid  features  out  of  shape !  " 


FRIENDSHIP 

I  viewed  him  well,  the  visible  fat  fool, 
And  yet  I  took  him  in;  for  I  contended, 
Friends  are  not  sent  in  order  of  our  choosing, 
They  come  unsuited  like  the  gifts  of  God. 
I  would  not  do  a  perfidy  to  friendship, 
I  let  him  past  the  private  inner  gate 
And  made  him  be  at  home  among  my  treasures 
Like  my  true  friend. 

Now  I  am  ground  with  a  grim  torture  daily 
That  I  have  been  befriended  by  a  fool. 
He  forages  at  will  upon  my  garden, 
He  noses  all  its  pretty  secrets  out, 
And  still  the  fool  finds  nothing  to  his  liking. 
Meeting  a  modest  velveteen  affair, 
Peevish  he  hangs  his  sad  and  silly  head: 
"  Alas !  such  unsubstantial  gaudy  goods !  " 
Thus  he  meets  pansies;  meeting  zinnias, 
He  nearly  faints  at  such  a  rioting: 
"  Alas !  what  fruit  will  these  red  wantons  bear  ?  " 

69 


jo  Friendship 

And  not  a  perfume  spills  upon  the  air 
But  his  malicious  nose  suspects  a  poison, 
As  he  goes  browsing  like  an  ancient  ass, 
An  old  distempered  ass. 

I'd  almost  rather  be  a  friendless  man 

And  have  my  house  my  own.    The  prying  fool 

Asks  me  the  queerest  idiotic  questions : 

"  O  friend,  is  this  the  harvest  of  your  hands  ? 

How  will  you  stand  before  the  lord  of  harvests? 

These  are  the  gardens  of  your  idleness; 

Where  is  the  vineyard,  friend  ? " 


THE  FOUR  ROSES 

Four  sisters  sitting  in  one  house, 
I  said,  these  roses  on  a  stem 
With  bosoms  bare.    But  wayfaring 
I  went  and  ravished  one  of  them. 

So  one  was  taken.    But  the  three, 
They  spread  their  petals  just  the  same, 
They  turned  no  decent  pale  for  grief, 
They  drew  no  fragrance  back  for  shame. 

The  canker  is  on  roses  too ! 

I  cried,  and  lifted  up  the  rod 

And  scourged  them  bleeding  to  the  ground. 

All,  all  are  sinners  unto  God. 


7i 


THE  SCHOOL 

I  was  not  drowsy  though  the  scholars  droned. 
Hearing  the  music  that  they  made  of  Greek, 
Whenever  Helen's  un forgotten  face 
Sent  other  young  men  whisking  off  to  war ; 
Hearing  much  mention  of  the  hecatombs, 
And  Pericles,  and  fishes  that  were  purple, 
Temples  in  white,  and  trees  that  they  named  olive ; 
And  thinking  always  of  proud  Athens  shining 
Upon  her  hill,  that  slanted  to  her  sea : 

Equipped  with  Grecian  thoughts,  how  could  I  live 
Among  my  father's  folk  ?    My  father's  house 
Was  narrow  and  his  fields  were  nauseous. 
I  kicked  his  clods  for  being  common  dirt, 
Worthy  a  world  which  never  could  be  Greek; 
Cursed  the  paternity  that  planted  me 
One  green  leaf  in  a  wilderness  of  autumn ; 
And  wept,  as  fitting  such  a  fruitful  spirit 
Sealed  in  a  yellow  tomb. 

72 


The  School  73 

The  Lord  preserves  his  saints  for  Christian  uses. 
He  sent  a  pair  of  providential  eyes. 
They  would  have  sat  in  any  witless  head, 
Although  I  deemed  them  deep  as  classic  seas, 
As  strange  as  any  woman  written  smiling, 
And  much  more  near;  the  merest  modern  eyes, 
The  first  my  Athens  faced;  and  yet  her  lamp, 
It  flickered  rather  low. 

Then  he  commanded  me  to  scrutiny 
As  to  a  fingered  thing  of  no  great  matter, 
A  circumstantial  sorry  little  coin. 
A  friendly  thing,  I  owned,  to  lie  so  warm 
Against  the  side  of  any  friendless  man; 
And  in  the  hand — O  if  the  happy  hand 
Accommodate  the  cunning  rounded  scepter, 
Then  is  dominion  seated  in  that  palm, 
And  coveting  is  seated  in  men's  eyes. 
Make   haste,    my   hands,    about    your    own    in- 
cisures ! 
And  what  were  dead  Greek  empires  to  me  then? 
Dishonored,  by  Apollo,  and  forgot. 


SICKNESS 

The  toughest  carcass  in  the  town 

Fell  sick  at  last  and  took  to  bed, 

And  on  that  bed  God  waited  him 

With  cool,  cool  hands  for  his  frantic  head, 

And  while  the  fever  did  its  dance 

They  talked,  and  a  good  thing  was  said : 

"  See,  I  am  not  that  Scriptural! 

A  lesser,  kinder  God  instead." 

Fever  must  run  its  course,  and  God 
Could  not  do  much  for  the  countryman. 
At  least  he  saved  him  certain  dreams: 
"  I  die !    O  save  me  if  you  can, 
I  am  a  bruised,  a  beaten  slave, 
I  march  in  a  blistering  caravan, 
They  dash  a  stone  upon  my  head — 
Ah  no,  but  that  is  God's  white  hand." 

God  plucked  him  back,  and  plucked  him  back, 
And  did  his  best  to  smoothe  the  pain. 
The  sick  man  said  it  was  good  to  know 
That  God  was  true,  if  prayer  was  vain. 

74 


Sickness  75 

"  O  God,  I  weary  of  this  night, 
When  will  you  bring  the  dawn  again  ?  " 
The  night  must  run  its  course,  but  God 
Was  weary  too  with  watching-strain. 

A  cluck  of  tuneless  silly  birds, 
A  guilty  gray,  and  it  was  dawn. 
The  sick  man  thumped  across  the  floor 
And  slid  the  curtain  that  was  drawn: 
"  O  pale  wet  dawn !    O  let  it  shine 
Lustrous  and  gold  on  the  good  green  lawn! 
The  lustre,  Lord!  "    Alas,  God  knows 
When  sad  conclusions  are  foregone. 

The  sick  man  leant  upon  his  Lord, 
On  that  imperfect  break  of  day, 
"  Now,  Lord,  I  die :  is  there  no  word, 
No  countervail  that  God  can  say?" 
No  word.    But  tight  upon  his  arm, 
Was  God,  and  drew  not  once  away 
Until  his  punctual  destiny. 
To  whom  could  God  repair  to  pray? 

Now  God  be  thanked  by  dying  men 
Who  comrades  them  in  times  like  these, 


j6  Sickness 

Who  dreads  to  see  the  doom  come  down 
On  these  black  midnight  canopies 
And  on  this  poisonous  glare  of  dawns. 
The  whole  world  crumples  in  disease, 
Bur  God  is  pitying  to  the  end, 
And  gives  an  office  to  my  knees. 

THE   END 


